


"Fetch My Robe"

by 13atoms (2Atoms)



Category: The Great (TV 2020)
Genre: Drunk Sex, F/M, Fluff and Angst, MC and Orlo are both idiots, Miscommunication, No Smut, but like mentions of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:23:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms
Summary: Request: waking up in Orlo's bed after a drunken night together.
Relationships: Count Orlo / Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

You woke to the echoing sound of gunshots in the grounds, jarring even amongst a shouting and a commotion which died quickly, mere seconds after the shots were fired. With a sigh, you tried to settle back to sleep. Being awoken by a stranger’s early-morning death was nothing new in this madhouse.

Warm arms tightened around your waist as you moved, and your eyes flew open, the barest hints of light trying to infiltrate through heavy curtains revealing the room to you.

It wasn’t your own bedroom.

You were disoriented, trying not to move as you panicked, your head pounding. _Fuck_.

Whose room had you awoken in? A sudden sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach struck you, combining with a wave of nausea. You tried to breathe deeply, willing yourself not to panic, as you felt disorientated by waking up somewhere new, unknown. Despite the cold climate you felt too hot, your own arms beneath the heavy blankets and furs, a warm body behind you. Equally naked.

The hold on you was possessive, demanding your closeness to the chest which pressed into your back, and you squinted in the darkness to recognise the space around you.

The bed was strangely placed, fitted into a corner rather than proud in the centre of a bedroom as most with apartments in the Palace preferred. In combination with a pair of spectacles perched on a book beside the bed, the curious orientation you awoke at answered your question.

Count Orlo.

Suddenly there was quiet commotion in the corridor outside, likely enough to wake the man spooning you like a real lover, and you snapped your eyes closed as the doors to Orlo’s chambers opened.

You felt his calf shift between your own legs, the movement making you aware of a faint ache inside you, and you bit your lip. As light spilled into the room from the opening of curtains, you snuck a look at the intruder. Orlo’s manservant, a young man who he was teaching to assist him, met your gaze.

As you took one another in, you struggled to recall a single detail of how you had wound up here.

The boy looked just as stricken as you, as he turned his body completely from the curtains he had just opened to gape open mouthed at the bedfellow The Count was clinging to. Even as your naked body was mostly covered, you had never felt more exposed.

Suddenly Orlo’s body shifted behind you, tugging at the sheets as he stood up, and you snapped your eyelids closed again.

The hangover might explain, somewhat, why you were here. But in your state you could not begin to process what had happened – you could barely remember the party you had been at, let alone falling into bed alongside the Count. You felt a tug of sadness at the realisation those memories had been taken from you by the shots of fine vodka you had been drinking. The two of you were remarkable friends. You had always hoped he might make some move to reciprocate your feelings, to be more bold and become the partner you dreamt he could be. That hope was wasted now, it seemed.

You wondered how he would react when he realised you were undressed in bed with him.

As Orlo sat up the sheets dragged with him and you forced yourself not to react as the covers slipped from your legs and shoulders, instead staying firmly still as if your sleep had never been interrupted.

As if your mind was not racing.

“Sir…”

The poor boy sounded uncertain – he had likely never had to deal with the sight of the Count in bed with someone before – and you fought down a laugh at the expense of the servant. You hoped he would not signal to the Count that you were truly awake.

“Yes?”

Orlo’s voice was gruff with sleep, his tone harsher than you’d thought possible, almost chiding the servant for simply doing his job.

“Would you like me to open the curtains, or..?”

“Leave them.”

“Yes, sir.”

You heard the footsteps of the manservant scurrying away, felt the sigh of Orlo behind you, and for a second you wondered if the encounter had simply ended.

“Luka,” he barked suddenly, before his voice turned softer, “come here.”

Chancing a squint through your eyelashes, you saw the boy returning, coming closer to the bed. He looked nervous, his hands folded politely across his front, and you felt Orlo quickly rearrange the blankets to softly cover your body from the cool air and from the servant’s eyes.

“You must tell no one about this,” Orlo whispered, suddenly more aware of waking you, “and if I hear word has spread…”

He did not finish the threat, but you knew his intention. It was a fight to muffle the disappointment sinking inside you at Orlo’s rejection, so soon after he had bedded you that you could still feel the slight ache of him inside you.

“Understood, sir. Will that be all?”

“What are my commitments today?”

“You have a meeting in half an hour, sir. That is why I woke you, I’m sorry I never thought to –”

“That is quite alright. Fetch my robe.”

You felt the man moving behind you, trying to slip his limbs free from the blankets, and the coldness of your skin without him made you shiver. He took the robe from Luka, and you felt the arm of it trail across your body, Orlo hissing at the prospect that the fabric might wake you.

“I will be back after my meeting for breakfast.”

A silence fell across the room for a moment, and you became suddenly aware of your shallow breathing, fearing that you might be caught out. The servant had remained blessedly quiet, despite his knowledge you were awake, and you made a note to thank him later. You could slip him some wine, perhaps.

“And your guest, sir?”

The bed shifted again as Orlo stood, and you tried not to rock as the soft mattress decompressed.

“Hopefully she will wake while I am gone. If not,” he seemed to think for a moment, and you felt your stomach clenching, “perhaps inform her maid of her whereabouts. Ensure she is gone by the time I am back. In fact, inform the guards at the door once she has left, so that I can return uninterrupted.”

A chill unrelated to the harsh Russian autumn shot through you, and you felt your blood turn cold, tears springing to your forcefully closed eyes.

“If you wish, sir.”

There was palpable tension in the air, and you felt truly sorry for the serf watching this morning play out. He must have dismissed himself, because the door closed a moment later. With a great exhale of breath, you heard Orlo move away, opening your eyes in time to see him pull his robe tighter and cross the room to his desk.

Facing away from you, he planted both hands on the surface of it, stacks of papers ignored as he stared out the window.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he breathed, “you’re an idiot, Orlo.”

You watched him in sheer shock, hurt tightening your chest and blocking your throat, as he moved and began to rummage through his wardrobe with the awkwardness of a man who did not usually have to dress himself.

Perhaps he had wanted to dress alone to avoid any more witnesses to the mistake he so clearly felt he had made. Perhaps he worried the noise of another person might wake you, and force him to face the consequences of his actions.

You cleared your throat uncomfortably, clutching the sheets as you sat up in bed, quietly delighting in the horror which spread across the Count’s face as he whirled around on the spot. He clutched his robe as his eyes met yours, and you immediately looked away in a bid to avoid crying in front of him.

He’d only think you weak, you supposed. Truly, he was not that man you’d thought him to be.

“I will make myself scarce, then.”

You cringed at the hoarseness of your throat, the hangover and the night before making themselves known in your strained voice. Orlo immediately rushed to the bed, and you _almost_ let yourself feel sorry for the man.

“Fuck! No, I… did you hear… that?”

Not trusting your voice, you nodded, looking somewhere over his shoulder as you found yourself unable to meet the deep brown eyes you imagined you had been gazing into the night before. Had he been as far gone as you, you wondered?

You were unsure which would be worse – if he remembered, or didn’t.

Orlo looked resigned at your response, pulling harshly at the skin of his face as he rubbed his forehead in a stressed motion you’d seen from him before countless times.

Never for this reason, though. 

“I cannot believe… I mean… did we?”

His usual eloquence escaped him, and you found yourself offering him a grimace as you confirmed his fears.

“We did.”

“You’re sure?” he sounded desperate, looked so much softer and vulnerable without his usual expensive clothing.

“Yes, I am sure,” you ground out pointedly.

The ache inside of you, the feeling of his seed, sticky and foreign between your legs, were all the confirmation you needed.

It took him a second to understand your meaning, but when he did you saw horror on is expression. His eyes went wide with shock, and you fought not to grit your teeth at his _stupidity_.

“I am sorry. Truly I… I fear I was drunk and there is a reason I have only begun to indulge recently. In alcohol, that is. God, I am an _idiot_.”

You watched in silent judgement, unimpressed as he floundered to apologise.

“This should never have happened. I am sorry,” he added lamely.

You found yourself seething.

“You sure know how to make someone feel special, Orlo,” you ground out, gathering the blankets around you to stand from the bed, looking desperately around for your clothes. They were crumpled by your feet. Undoubtedly, it would be a struggle to get them back on alone.

Instead you spotted another gown in Orlo’s open closet, and resigned yourself to a walk to shame. You took half the bed with you as you cross the room, the man beside you following in confused desperation.

“That is not what I meant. I swear. I just… I am sorry to have tarnished our friendship like this.”

Disappointment in his actions had pushed you beyond shame, you dropped the sheets to put on the gown without a second thought, fighting down a cruel comment as you tied the belt to realise Orlo was flustered and averting his eyes.

“Then I am sorry for our _friendship_ ,” you spat out, “and that I have made you ashamed and distressed you to such a degree. I am also sorry for the feelings I had secretly harboured for you. Clearly they were mislaid.”

For a moment, something in the realm of shock, then elation, passed over his features. He reached out to you, as if you take your hands, and you crossed your arms defensively instead. He mirrored you, tucking his hands beneath his arms awkwardly, a small smile on his face.

“I had never dreamed you felt as I did. Perhaps, last night, that is what we realised! I must have told you how much heart _yearns_ for you, I swear I would share my bed with no one else.”

You regarded him for a second, the eagerness on his face, his hair disheveled in that messy way which nothing but sex could achieve. Yet the pounding in your head and the horror of hearing his words that morning only caused you to see red in his suddenly, suspicious change of attitude.

“And I fear my own heart is an idiot,” you crossed the room as you spoke, Orlo’s features falling as you reached the door, “because I could never be with someone who could treat another so spinelessly.”

Orlo rushed towards you, holding his hands out once again for you to pointedly ignore.

“I was afraid! I was panicked, that you did not truly want me, that I had made a bad decision. But it is you, and truly, I could not –”

His words were cut off as you closed the door behind you, tears streaming down your face as you faced the first of dozens of pity stares, your walk of shame beginning.

With each step, you could feel your friendship with the Count ending.


	2. Chapter 2

The walk through the corridors was humiliating, knowing looks and curious peers throwing out questions which make you choke back sobs.

As soon as you were in your own quarters you demanded a bath, throwing the Count’s gown balled up into a corner, shivering as your maidservant raced to fill the tub. She apologised for her slowness, and you waved her apology away. She was poorly concealing her startled expression as you wrapped your naked body in a blanket from your own bed, of a lower quality than the fabrics Orlo had, but comforting in its familiarity as you tried not to cry.

At any moment, you expected the Count’s knuckles to rap on the door, his begs for forgiveness seeping through the heavy wood. You would turn him away, you were sure, but at least the knowledge he wanted to _try_ to make things right would be some balm to soothe the aching in your chest.

It was tragic, you realised, that the depth and seriousness of your feelings for the Count were only truly realised when any hope of a future with him was abruptly taken from you.

The memories still wouldn’t come back to you, frustratingly elusive as your headache worsened with each sob, and you felt cheated.

At least, if nothing else, you might have had some recollections to cling to. Did Orlo remember, you wondered? Was it bad? Was that why he had tried to sneak from his own bed at the first opportunity, his manservant a willing accomplice in his carefully laid plans to avoid you.

Another treacherous thought crossed your mind – that he was somehow faking his feelings for you. That he had realised the political and social fallout of what he had done, was manipulating your strong emotions for him to prevent you from holding any leverage over him.

You winced at the bath water, slightly too cold. Yet another blow to your already difficult morning. A heated bucket of a water poured in burned your skin, and you threw your head back in a defeated groan.

“Is everything okay, Miss?”

“Fine.”

With that, you were left alone. You sunk under the water, letting the sounds of the palace be dulled by the water as it rushed over your head and weighed heavy on you. 

You wanted to be clean. Clean of his sweat on your skin, of his seed inside of you. You needed to forget the warmth of waking up in his arms, the comfort of his bed. You scrubbed your skin, trying to rid yourself of the memory of his excitement after you confessed how you felt for him.

You stayed in the bath until the water turned icy cold, emerging shivering and with your skin wrinkled. After wrapping yourself in a towel you sat down for breakfast, unable to stomach anything. Your mind was elsewhere, as you wondered what was happening. Was Orlo’s meeting finished? Was he still thinking about you, his mind drifting as he tried to take notes and strategies?

Did he regret the night before?

Pushing your food aside you tried to write in your diary, your mouth uncomfortably dry as you tapped your pen on the blank page. Eventually you gave up, the memories too jumbled and upsetting to put into simple words just yet.

Trying to read, redressing, and avoiding leaving your rooms managed to occupy much of your day.

You were to ashamed to face the judgement of the Court – word spread fast, and your walk of shame would already be heralded by the ladies in every corner of this place. Orlo would no doubt come away unscathed.

His desperate bid to preserve his reputation had, somehow, worked. The realisation that he could roam the hallways free of judgement while you could be punished for your drunken decisions made another bolt of pain and embarrassment burn through you.

You wondered if you hated him.

Dinner came and went, and you waited until the last possible minute to walk through the halls.

You looked exhausted, your eyes red from tears, makeup insufficient to cover your sorrow. Although your hangover had cleared, there was a nausea in your stomach from heartache. Hunger won out, though, and you expected a banquet might offer enough options and distraction to fuel your body.

Arriving late should promise Orlo’s absence – he never usually stayed later than needed – and you approached the banquet hall as quickly as you could. Everyone important would be drunk or gone, and you paid no mind to the strange number of people milling outside the doors as you approached.

That was, until you heard the shouts.

“How is dinner with your right hand going?” a Commander yelled, the tittering of Lords and Ladies around him sending a chill down your spine.

The doors were closed, aside from one which seemed to be ajar, gentry peering through the opening and shouting to however was inside.

You had a sinking feeling, and yet you approached closer regardless.

“What is happening?”

“Oh!” one of the ladies answered you, mock surprise on her face, “you look sick!”

With a polite smile, you tried not to internalise her jab.

“I am fine,” you replied politely, “but thank you for your concern.”

The small crowd had half-turned their attention to you, and you tried not to slump under the pressure of their stares.

“So what is happening?”

“Count Orlo has opted to commander the entire banquet hall,” someone groaned, a patronising mocking in their tone.

“And has still managed to be stood up!” another laughed, and you tried to conceal the growing sense of dread which

“Look!” a Lady urged, shoving you closer to the open door.

Inside was a sight which made your throat tighten in an emotion you could not quite place.

Candles illuminated a single table in the centre, only two full place settings sat opposite one another. The entire hall had been emptied and cleaned, the usual dozens of chairs and tables removed to leave a stunning amount of empty hardwood floor.

Count Orlo was sat alone at the table, his head braced in his hands, ignoring the voices outside which you had no doubt he could hear. You didn’t need to ask how long he had been there – dinner ought to have started hours ago, and the candles held in an ornate silver candleholder were halfway burnt.

He was dressed even more formally than usual, his waistcoat covered with a jacket and his hair restored to its usual state, brushed out from that morning and coiffed.

What had he offered Peter? What move had he made, to secure the grandest room in the palace during the regular dinner service.

Had he been willing to piss off the entire palace for this?

You hoped you were not being presumptuous, to see yourself opposite him at that table. Ignoring the gasps and titters behind you, you stepped into the eerily empty space.

He looked up at your footsteps, their sound echoing around the room as you approached him.

There was no greeting, no jumping to his feet to pull out your chair. He just looked at you, only managing to offer you a watery half-smile for a scant second before his face dropped again.

You stood awkwardly beside the chair opposite him, finding yourself on the back foot as you took in his reddened eyes and bitten lip. Outside there was still whispers, hissing into the room, inaudible but no doubt cruel.

“Hi, Orlo,” you tried quietly, watching his hands play with one of the forks laid out beside the plate.

“You came.”

“I wasn’t aware you had requested my presence.”

He sighed at that, hanging his head.

“I did not, I just assumed… you would have to eat eventually. I had not anticipated that you would go to such great lengths to avoid me.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms defensively as you looked down at his slumped posture, how he stared down at the table as he sat.

“I should have… I mean… I was an absolute dullard.”

He cut himself off, finally looking up at you, taking in your appearance as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

“How are you?” he asked, the words carrying far more weight than they ought to.

You tried not to feel the affection for him which usually rose to the surface at his soft voice, at his sincere concern for you. He had been crying, you’d realised. Really, crying. And yet you held no regret for the harshness of your words as he recoiled from them.

“I have been informed I appear ill, this evening. You will have to forgive that. But I was expecting there to be food here. Not… you, crying alone.”

“There should be… I mean, food is an option. If you do not mind my company.”

“I am indifferent towards it. As, apparently, you are towards me.”

You took your seat, seeing Orlo jolt forwards at the last minute but not get up to get your chair. He’d always done that even as your friend – and you felt a little disconcerted by his absent-minded panic. He seemed to barely know what to say, pinching his forehead in frustration with himself.

Setting your napkin on your lap as an invitation of his offer for dinner, you noted that the doors were now closed. Perhaps there were still ears pressed against it, but you were glad to be free of your audience.

The Count sighed, sorrowful as he met yours eyes.

“God, fuck. I am so sorry. For how I acted this morning, and for not acting sooner. I understand you must regret sharing my bed, the things we did. I cannot remember but I have spent all day wondering how I might make it up to you.”

A server appeared with a bottle of wine in hand, and poured you a glass. You reached for it quickly, cradling it against your cheek as you took in the truly distraught expression on his face. His lip had been worried by his teeth to the point of bleeding – you could see where it was struggling against his worriedness to heal – and his eyes bore a redness characteristic of crying.

“And so you decided to… _not_ invite me to dinner?”

“Well, when you put it like that –”

You were caught offguard for a moment, laughing and hearing Orlo join in as if there was nothing afoot between you. A pang of longing for the friendship you had shared before the night before hit you abruptly, making your mouth snap closed and your fingers fumble for your wine glass. You took a gulp, distracting yourself from how Orlo seemed to struggle to withhold his sobs.

“When you said you had feelings for me… I cannot remember elation like that in all my years here.”

Silently, you nodded for him to continue, clinging onto his every word.

You were interrupted for a second by the appearance of a starter, soup and bread which made steam rise between yourself and Orlo. You ignored the food, even as your stomach grumbled.

“I wish I could remember last night. I have never pursued another, not since I met you. Not that I turn many heads, but –”

With a soft call of his name, you interrupted him.

“I really cared for you. I have, for months, and yet you tried to leave me without a second thought. Did you expect me to pretend nothing had happened? Or hope I did not realise whose chambers I had woken in?”

Hiding his face in his hands, Orlo seemed physically hurt by your words. You faltered, wondering if he even _had_ thought.

“I have gone about this all wrong. I could punch myself, for last night. I wanted to give you so much better. I swear I had plans, things I was going to do. I had wanted to woo you, and each time I was a _bumbling coward_. I was afraid you would hate me. And that I would ruin things.”

He let the words hang for a second, reaching for his starter spoon before putting it back down with a metallic _clink_ against the heavily varnished tabletop.

“And now, I have ruined things.”

His resigned sigh was so absolute, you had to fight your impulse to comfort him. He began to sip at his soup, pointedly avoiding looking at you. Keen to finish this meal, it seemed.

“If you had done this for me yesterday,” you caught his attention as you spoke, your carefully considered words seeming quiet in so much space, “I would have been swept off my feet.”

“Even if the entire palace had ogled?”

He gestured towards the doors, and you tore your bread apart with your hands, trying to control your emotions.

“I think their judgement is more _your_ fear, Orlo. Let us hope Luka doesn’t gossip.”

The Count had the decency to hang his head.

“I assure you, I feared more for your reputation than my own.”

“Is that true?”

Called on his half-truth, he ran a hand over his face, his food once again forgotten.

“It is complicated. But I assure you, a night with me would do nothing positive for your status here.”

“Then perhaps I ought to leave.”

Neither of you moved.

There was a hint of his familiar mischief in Orlo’s resigned sigh as he accepted that he had lost. He took your wine glass, setting it on the ground, and you frowned.

“Perhaps you will allow me to try again, just dinner.”

He gestured to the table, and you tapped your fingers against the tabletop as you considered his words.

“No alcohol. No onlookers. We can end the night in our own beds,” he proposed.

You tilted your head, luxuriating a little in the moment as Orlo watched you anxiously. You reached one hand over the table, as if for a handshake, and he took your fingers delicately in his own.

“A first dinner date, then,” you proposed, “starting a little late, but it will do.”

You introduced yourself, a little sarcastically, and Orlo watched you with as much adoration as you had ever seen a smitten lover send another.

He kissed the back of your hand, never breaking his eye contact with you, and you tried not to feel a warm flush at the gesture.

“Count Orlo, it is truly a pleasure to meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idiots: reconciled


End file.
